Chapter 1
Bernie thought she had heard every bar joke and had definitely seen a lot of situations that made her think of one she had heard in the forty-plus years she had owned the Chicken Coop, a bar in Ratliff City, Oklahoma. But she changed her mind when the rubber rooster above the door crowed loudly and she looked up to see her first customer for the day. This group beat all she had ever seen.
The faded sign, which had hung a little crooked since the last tornado swept through and kissed it, declared that the place was officially called the Chicken Coop, but it was commonly known as Bernie’s Place. The sign to the right of the door said LEAVE YOUR COCKY ATTITUDE OUTSIDE. Bernie had had it made special after she’d had to take care of a brawl a couple of decades ago, and there was still a hole in the ceiling to remind her customers that she kept a sawed-off shotgun under the counter.
Expecting to see a Friday night customer, she couldn’t believe the parade of three that marched into her bar.She blinked several times, but the sexy fellow leading the way didn’t disappear. If she’d been forty years younger, she would have stripped him out of his jeans that hugged a perfectly fine body and snatched the shirt that showed his ripped abdomen up over his head. Then she would have thrown him back on her bed in the apartment behind the bar and climbed his frame.
That silly notion came to an abrupt halt when she looked beyond Mr. Sexy with his dark green eyes with gold flecks and long, silver hair and beard and saw her red-haired niece, Clara, following him. Clara had to be looking thirty in the eye now, and Bernie hadn’t seen her in almost a decade, so what was she doing in Ratliff City?
Bernie’s first thought was that her twin sister, Vernie Sue, had sent Clara to pass out pamphlets to a revival meeting that was about to happen at the little church there in town. From the expression on Clara’s face, Bernie wouldn’t have been surprised if the girl broke down in tears. But she’d have to deal later with whatever bad news Clara was bringing, because right behind her was Hershal Bennington. He was an old flame of Bernie’s from the nineties, or maybe it was even the eighties, and he carried a bowl with a dead goldfish in one hand and a handsome little Chihuahua in the other.
“That looks like the beginning of a brand-new bar joke,” she muttered.
Mr. Sexy claimed a barstool and flashed a brilliant smile. “Love the rooster and the sign. By the way, myname is Nash Murphey.”
“Any kin to Hoot Murphey?” Bernie asked.
“He’s my grandpa,” Nash answered.
Clara put her hands over her eyes and began to sob. Bernie didn’t need that kind of aura in her bar, especially on a Friday night when things would be hopping in a few minutes. And why would she be crying because Hoot Murphey was Nash’s grandpa? To Bernie’s knowledge, Clara had never been to Ratliff City. If she even mentioned coming to the Chicken Coop to see Bernie, her mama and grandma would have tied rocks around her and thrown her in the river. So how would she know any of the people who lived there?
Then Hershal broke down and started weeping like a little girl. The Chihuahua commenced to howling. The rooster above the door crowed again to signal that two bikers wearing black leather jackets had arrived. Hershal hugged the goldfish bowl to his chest, set the dog on the bar, raised one hand toward the ceiling, and commenced to praying—out loud—and asking God to raise his poor Goldie from the dead.
“Is this still a bar?” the one with Mad Dog embroidered on his leather vest asked.
The one with Snake Eyes on his vest raised an eyebrow. “Did someone die?”
“Evidently Goldie did, but I’m not sure who she is, or if the girl is crying because the woman died, or if she’s upset because the guy at the end of the bar is relatedto Hoot Murphey,” Bernie answered. “But I’ll sort it all after I get y’all whatever you want. What can I get you guys?”
“Two pitchers of beer, and we’ll sit over there by the jukebox,” Mad Dog said.
“I’ve seen weepy drunks at a bar. Even been one a couple of times, but I ain’t never seen a goldfish and a little bitty dog cause such a ruckus,” Snake Eyes added.
Bernie nodded in agreement and started drawing up a pitcher of beer. In her rattled state, she hadn’t even asked what brand they wanted. “Coors?” she asked.
“Budweiser,” Mad Dog said. “And you better make that four pitchers.”
She set the half-full pitcher to the side and shoved a clean one under the right spigot. “Y’all headed down to the rally at Turner Falls? You sure it’s safe to ride after drinking all this beer? I might warn you that there’s very few bathrooms between here and there.”
“Our friends will be coming in for a cold one in a few minutes. They’re about a mile behind us,” Snake Eyes answered and then chuckled. “And, honey, we don’t need a men’s room. We can make do with a bush or a tree.”
“How many more are on the way?” Bernie pulled a tray out from under the bar and began to load it with mugs.
“Ten more,” Mad Dog threw over his shoulder and led the way to the far corner.
Clara raised up, took a look at the bikers, floppedher head down on the bar, and began to cry even harder.
“This is a bar!” Bernie growled and pointed toward Hershal. “If you want to pray, you can pick out whatever church in town that you like best and go there. I don’t give a tiny rat’s ass who Goldie is; you can mourn her somewhere other than here. This whole scene takes the cake, the frosting, and even the scoop of ice cream on the side. So, stop your caterwaulin’ or get out.” She whipped around and shot her finger toward her great-niece.
Hershal stroked the fishbowl, stared up at the tobacco-colored ceiling, and asked God to forgive his sins and not strike him dead on the spot. “I loved you, Goldie, and you’ve been the best friend a trucker has ever had.”
“Hey, now!” Bernie snapped. “Enough of this crying in my bar. Either dry it up or leave, and that goes for the both of you. Are you saying that dead fish is, or was, a better friend than I have been? Did you forget about all those nights you spent with me?”
“I cheated on my girlfriend with you, and I cheated on you with a couple of cute little waitresses out in the Panhandle…” Hershal took a red bandanna from his hip pocket and blew his nose loudly. “I thought God had forgiven me, but He must have remembered all my past sins when I stole that dog, and He…” His voice got higher and higher until it was nothing more than a squeak when he said, “He killed Goldie.”
Earlier that day, Bernie had made a breakfast runto the convenience store for a burrito and a six-pack of root beer. There hadn’t been a storm cloud in sight, so she didn’t think Hershal, or the bar, was in danger of lightning striking. But on second thought, Bernie had no doubt that her twin sister could conjure up a hurricane all the way from the Gulf of Mexico to the dry land in southern Oklahoma because her granddaughter was sitting on a barstool. Vernie Sue had always been Bernie’s absolute opposite. She still had a perfectly straight halo and perfect white, fluffy wings. If any relative didn’t believe that, Vernie Sue would lay hands on them and pray for their doubting souls.
According to Vernie Sue, Bernie had horns hiding under her red hair, which might be the gospel truth. But if the twin sisters could each put a number on the amount of fun they had had in life, Bernie would have gotten the trophy.
